


Yerba Buena

by shiphitsthefan



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series), Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, But the Books Are Wonderful and Everyone Should Check Them Out, Cartoonist Shane, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Happy Ending, M/M, Misunderstandings, No Prior Knowledge of Discworld Needed, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Witch Ryan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-04-28 01:42:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14438796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiphitsthefan/pseuds/shiphitsthefan
Summary: As a Believer and Practicing witch, Ryan Bergara carries on the traditions of his ancestors, coexisting with the supernatural, embracing both his talent for divination and expertise at crafting magical teas and other potions. The community respects him; Believers frequent Ryan’s shop for a cup of tea and a glimpse into their future. He loves his work, especially his yearly Spring Cleansing visit with Chad, the ghost unliving across the street in the old Eastwick house.Ryan has never met a Skeptic—at least, he hadn’t, until one bought Chad’s house. As Spring Cleansing approaches and the Veil between worlds draws thin, Ryan must find a way to convince his new non-Believing neighbor to let Ryan bless his new home and appease Chad.The task was daunting enough, but after meeting Shane Madej, Ryan's certain it's impossible.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to participate in [round two](https://thebuzzfeedchallenge.tumblr.com/post/171950452968/what-is-it-a-creations-challenge-which-includes) of [The Buzzfeed Creations Challenge](https://thebuzzfeedchallenge.tumblr.com). My prompt was "spring cleaning" and, as usual, I've gone completely overboard with it, because I have no control over my life. Coffee shop AUs are my one true platonic love; I already have [a Hannigram psychic coffee shop fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7574752), so why not a Shyan magic tea shop?
> 
> Including Ryan's real-life heritage is extremely important to me. I have no interest in glossing over and erasing either his race or his culture, not only because it is a disrespect to him, but also to POC readers who so rarely get to see themselves represented in fandom ships. However, I also don't want to cause offense; in this spirit, **I welcome constructive criticism on this fic.** My intent was to strike a balance between the traditional magic practices without causing conflict. If I've done this either poorly or haphazardly, **please let me know.**
> 
> Betaed by the wonderful [edgarallanrose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/edgarallanrose/pseuds/edgarallanrose/works). Thank you, lovely!
> 
> And thanks to you, too. I hope you enjoy the fic! <3

Ryan knew Skeptics existed in the way he knows coelacanths exist: elsewhere, and not particularly encounterable. Being an earth witch means an even slimmer chance. Herbs don’t grow in the deepest, darkest bodies of water, and thank God for that. The risk of meeting a bear in the woods terrifies Ryan enough.

Yet here he stands on the doorstep of the old Eastwick house, welcome basket in hand, face to face with a living human fossil.

“Um,” says Ryan smartly, because either Skeptics are all giants or else his new neighbor’s Skepticism manifests in height. The man’s smile more than makes up for his incidental looming, and his beard gives him an odd quality, like an overly friendly lumberjack. The smoothness of his aura settles Ryan’s uneasiness further, all orange and yellow, though as hazy as he would expect from a non-believer.

As for the pink shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, unbuttoned more than necessary? Ryan definitely has no issues there. None he wants to discuss, at least.

“Can I help you?” the man asks, leaning in his doorway, arms crossed.

Ryan pulls himself together. “I wanted to welcome you to town.”

“So...hello, then?”

“Hello. Yes.” Ryan attempts to smile—it’s hard when he feels like such an idiot. “This isn’t going well, is it?”

He tilts his head down, but Ryan can still see his eyes scrunch up with amusement. “Tell you what,” says the man. “How about I close the door, and you ring the bell, and we’ll do a second take.”

Before Ryan can agree, the door closes. His incredibly odd neighbor hums a nonsense tune behind it.

**This is stupid, Ryan,** and of course Lainey followed him across the street.

Ryan glares at the spirit standing beside him. “What happened to minding your own business?”

She picks at her dress; Ryan will never understand how a spirit manages to create lint.  **It’s boring,** she tells him.  **Your cats are boring. Tea is boring. Watching you make a fool of yourself?** Lainey snickers.  **Now** **_that’s_ ** **entertainment.**

“Shut up.”

“Gosh,” says the neighbor, muffled, “I wonder if the gentleman standing on my porch will visit me today.”

**Ring the bell.** Lainey elbows Ryan; his shoulder prickles.  **Besides, he’s cute.**

Ryan gives up, ignores her, and pulls on the bell cord. “Hello!” he says when the door swings open. “I’m here to welcome you to the neighborhood.”

“And you don’t even have a wagon.”

“I did bring tea and cookies.”

“How about a name?”

_ Ah. _ Ryan faces a true yet unexpected conundrum. Giving a Skeptic his true name isn’t a great idea; names carry a certain power, a definite weight. On the other hand, gaining this stranger’s trust is crucial if Ryan hopes to continue participating in Zub Village’s annual Spring Cleansing.

Still. “I’m Ricky,” he says, and sticks out his hand.

“Nice strong grip you have there, Ricky.” The man’s palm is warm, dwarfing Ryan’s hand. “Shane Madej, pleasure to meet you, et cetera and so forth.”

“Oh! Goldsworth,” Ryan adds. “Ricky Goldsworth.”

“Are you a secret agent, Goldsworth-Ricky-Goldsworth?”

Making Ryan laugh shouldn’t be this easy; the tightness in his chest shouldn’t feel so welcome. “Definitely not.”

Shane stands aside, waving Ryan in. “Sorry for the mess. I’m remodeling the place in fits and spurts.”

“At least you have an excuse. My front room’s an organized disaster.” Ryan steps over the corner of an air mattress. “Customers don’t seem to mind, and neither do the cats, which doesn’t really give me impetus to clean.”

“I’d show you to the kitchen,” says Shane, “but you seem to know where you’re going.”

Ryan dodges a stack of brightly-colored floral shirts. “I cleanse this house once a year,” he explains. “Speaking of, you didn’t get rid of the pinstriped chair, did you?”

“It’s—it’s in the attic.” Shane’s footsteps stop as Ryan puts the basket down on the kitchen table. At least  _ it _ remains in the right place. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“That’s Chad’s.”

A pause, punctuated only by the teacups and saucers settling softly on the table. “I’m sorry,  _ whose?” _

Ryan frowns, unpacking the enchanted teapot. “Chad Eastwick. You’re living in his house.” Best not to rush the whole story on Shane, Ryan decides. He can bring up Shane’s once-a-year roommate later. “The chair is kind of a—a fixture in the parlor.”

“Why?”

“I guess because Chad put it there.”

“But why not keep the rest of the furniture in the house, too?”

_ Because his ghost is only bound to the chair. _ “I don’t know,” says Ryan, rifling through the selection of crystals he brought, trying to decide which correspondence will pair best with the tea and empanadas. The mere  _ thought _ of muddling a charm in front of Shane embarrasses him, which is stupid, since Shane won’t care either way. “Could’ve been uglier than the chair.”

Shane snorts. “Okay, that’s fair enough.” He settles onto one of the short stools, looking ridiculous, knees bumping against the outside edge of the table. “You don’t kid around with your tea times, do you?” he asks, picking up the handle-less cup in front of him. Shane handles it delicately, curiously, like he truly appreciates it.

“Comes with the profession.” Ryan tears his eyes away from Shane’s hands.

“Which is?”

_ Here we go. _ “I’m an earth witch,” he says. “An herbalist, of sorts— a yerbero, like my abuelo. I blend my own teas, make potions and brews and the like. But I also read tea leaves.”

Silence. Horrible, terrible silence—it skips a rock through Ryan’s belly. He ignores it as best he can, focusing on measuring the kocha; tapping his finger against the rim of the teapot to urge faster brewing; pulling the wrapped plate of empanadas out of the basket; finishing setting the table.

Shane keeps quiet throughout, saying nothing until Ryan pours the tea. “It’s, uh.” He clears his throat. “Nice tea set.”

The bubble of Ryan’s laughter matches those popping on the surface of Shane’s tea. “I inherited it from my sousobo—my great-grandmother, before you ask.”

“Where was she from?”

“Uh. Here.”

Shane wrinkles his nose. “That came out wrong. I meant, what language is that from?”

“Japanese,” he replies. “I didn’t know her that well—she passed when I was just a little kid—but I inherited her knack for divination.”

“Right.” The tone in Shane’s voice makes Ryan’s stomach sour. “Of course. Knack.” After an awkward pause, Shane says, “So! The pot keeps the boiling water boiling?

Ryan hums, running a tiger’s eye crystal around the brim of Shane’s cup. He much prefers curiosity to blatant disregard. Maybe his visit can be salvaged— _ I should’ve used blue chalcedony, _ thinks Ryan, second-guessing as he always does.

“What the heck are you doing?”

“Oh! I didn’t even think to explain. This is to charge the tea.” Ryan prepares to launch into the properties of the crystal, and how it will infuse the tea with luck and good fortune; why Ryan used chuparosa water he’d left in a beam of afternoon sunshine; the way the potion unexpectedly complements Shane’s aura.

But Shane preempts him. “Anyway, I didn’t think they had thermal technology in ye olden days. Auto-brewing teapots.”

Deflated, Ryan barely resists rolling his eyes. ‘ _ Thermal technology.’ Skeptics really  _ are _ idiots. _ “There’s money coming your way,” and he reaches across the table to indicate the bubbles in Shane’s cup, quick, to the point. He’d rather excitedly ramble.

“I mean, I  _ do _ get a paycheck.”

“What kind of work do you do?”

“I’m a cartoonist,” he says, picking up the teapot, looking for its secrets. “I write the funnies.”

Ryan blows into his own cup. “Which strip?”

_ “Hot Daga.” _

“Oh God. You’re C.C. Tinsley.”

Shane grins. “Not a fan, I take it?”

“Mostly just curious what kind of mushrooms you ingest to come up with your plot lines.”

“Would you believe none?”

Ryan takes a cautious sip, then admits, “Probably not.”

“Well.” Shane approaches his own cup cautiously. “At least we both have something not to believe in.”

It takes the wind out of his lungs, partly from shocked disbelief at Shane’s blatant dismissal of magic, but also because it’s weirdly humorous, him equating Ryan’s jibe with his own arrogance. Ryan had heard Skeptics were arrogant, almost to the point of evangelism; he imagines Shane takes it to new heights.

“Empanada?” offers Ryan. He has no idea how else to react. “Strawberry on the left, blueberry on the right.”

“And what will these do to me?”

“Well—”

“They smell nice,” Shane says. Ryan watches him pick up one of each with a single hand, at the same time, fingers like tongs, and Ryan needs to stop thinking about Shane’s hands immediately. “And the tea is excellent.”

“Thank you. Lots of practice.”

“I’d hope so. Either that, or no one else in these parts can make tea without burning it.”

Ryan tries not to slosh his tea as he laughs. “Funny you should mention that.”

The story of Esme Weatherwax’s ineptitude at brewing comes easily, if only because her wife Gytha has told it to Ryan so many times. Each version differs from the previous, often more elaborate, sometimes scandalous, and occasionally including a hedgehog. If Esme’s home, she glares at Gytha the whole time—

“Wait, why does the story always change?” asks Shane, halfway through his third empanada. “Has this Nanny no respect for the historical record?”

“No, no, it’s not—well, it might be a little; Nanny is the closest thing we have to a historian around here.”

“Seriously? The town history consists of various lewd retellings of a woman setting her cottage on fire trying to make tea?”

—and Ryan wonders, occasionally, if Esme’s cursing her, or even him. Ryan wouldn’t put it past her; while he respects Granny Weatherwax, he’s far fonder of Nanny Ogg.

“It’s a good thing curses aren’t real then, huh?”

The strawberry filling turns sour in Ryan’s mouth. “That really isn’t necessary.”

“What?”

“Throwing your Skepticism in my face. It won’t earn you many friends around here, eith—no, wait, don’t finish all of your tea!”

Shane pries Ryan’s hand off the top of his cup one finger at a time. “Why? Is it poisoned?”

“Because you have to leave a little tea in the bottom if I’m going to read the leaves.”

“Are they going to be particularly chatty?”

“I just thought I’d offer you a free divination,” Ryan says. He can’t meet Shane’s eyes, deciding to focus on breaking crumbs off of his blueberry empanada, which isn’t working, because he doesn’t feel tranquil, at all. “Kind of like an—an icebreaker, I guess.”

“Aw,” says Shane, face inscrutable, “and here I thought I was special. Instead, you’re a door-to-door divination salesman.”

_ “No, _ that’s not why I do it! I want to be nice—it’s a neighborly thing to do.”

“Like the magical version of letting someone borrow your lawn mower?”

“Sure,” says Ryan, discouraged by Shane’s posture. Sharing tea no longer seems nice. Asking about visiting the house for Spring Cleansing suddenly sounds dreadful. “Never mind, I don’t have to—”

But Shane pushes his tea cup over. “No, go ahead. Read to your heart’s content.”

Ryan accepts it cautiously. Divining for Shane would be more fruitful if Shane swirled and flipped his own cup, but Ryan doesn’t want to hand it back, so  _ he _ prepares and drains the cup. It clinks against the saucer, Ryan’s hands unsteady.

“So what genre have you got in the cup?”

“Shane—”

“Is it compatible with the Dewey Decimal System?”

Ryan giggles, an odd combination of insulted and amused. “I don’t think so,” he says, “but it is a very good reading. See this arm here?”

Shane blinks at the clump of tea leaves Ryan points at. “Are you sure that isn’t a dead caterpillar?”

“I think it’s an arm,” although it  _ could _ be a caterpillar. Ryan contemplates further. “The receiver’s perspective is as important as the caster’s, though, given the leaves reflect the intentions of both.”

Shane frowns, tapping his finger on the table. “Okay, so what does the disembodied arm tell you?”

“Well it’s outstretched,” begins Ryan, “and the palm faces up, so you can expect a new influence to enter your life, one that will bring you joy. Because it’s farther down the cup—see, closer to the bottom.”

“Oh, yeah. Okay.”

“That means it will be in the near future, but not immediately. Give it a few weeks.”

“And a dead caterpillar?” Shane pokes the leaves. “Looks like a wooly one.”

“A caterpillar means you’re being criticized and heavily gossiped about by people who otherwise treat you well.”

“Ah.” His eyebrows draw together. “I think I like your interpretation better.”

“It could be both,” Ryan says. “Now you know to be on your guard.”

Shane rests the side of his head in the palm of his hand elbow dangerously close to the teapot. “What else?”

“I feel like you’re just humoring me.”

“Of  _ course _ I’m humoring you. You’re loaning me your lawn mower.”

Ryan shakes his head, then plows on. “See this curtain here?” he asks, turning the cup.

“That’s a curtain?”

“Someone is hiding something important from you. It’s up near the rim, though, so you should find out what it is very soon. Because the top of the image points toward the arm—”

“Or caterpillar.”

“—and-slash-or caterpillar, these predictions are likely related.” Ryan hesitates; he’s hiding Chad’s existence from Shane. Could the leaves be telling him to confess?  _ They reflect the intentions of both of us, _ he reminds himself.  _ But what about the arm-ipillar? Does that mean me, too? _

Shane waves his hand in front of Ryan’s face. “You look like you saw a ghost in my teacup.”

“Not in your teacup, no.”

He narrows his eyes. “Is it sitting on my head? Suspended upside-down from the ceiling like Spiderman?”

“Remember how I told you I come over here sometimes to cleanse the place?” Shane nods, so Ryan continues. “There’s a tradition here where all Practitioners visit with a ghost to help them stay soothed and content. We call it Spring Cleansing. Every year, on the day where spring turns to summer, when the Veil draws thinnest, I come have tea with Chad.”

“You mean the—the guy who left the awful chair in my house?”

“Mr. Eastwick has been my charge since I took over the shop from my abuelo; I’ll need to visit this house at the summer solstice.”

“Okay, wait.” Shane sounds like he’s trying not to laugh, speech half-spluttered. “You’re inviting yourself over for High Tea in three months.”

“It’s kind of an all-day event. Chad and I have tea, and I bless and ward the house to keep him protected for the year so no one can drag him through the Veil and trap him. More than he already  _ is _ trapped, anyway.”

“Do you appease him with tacky furnishings or…?”

Ryan rubs his temples; his cheeks feel feverish. “No. I’m not summoning him.”

“You summon invisible friends with furniture?”

“Can I please just come over on the summer solstice?”

“Is this the important thing that was being kept from me?” and Shane outright  _ laughs, _ and Ryan stares into the cup, hoping some other answer lies within, a cure for his mortification.

“I thought it might be.”

“Hey there, Spooky Chad!” shouts Shane. “I’m here to steal your chair!”

Ryan stands up, as angry as he’s ever been, accidentally knocking his own cup off the table. It shatters when it hits the floor, remnants of his tea splattering over the stone tiles. The leaves fall into a round chain of daisies, or maybe those are just dead caterpillars, too.

Shane reaches for Ryan’s arm, and Ryan jerks away. “Ricky, I’m s—”

“This was a mistake,” he says, desperate not to cry, gathering his basket and what remains of his tea set. “Don’t worry about the plate. You can keep it, and the tea.” Ryan sets the little tin down on the table harder than necessary. “Welcome to Zub. I’ll show myself out.”

He can hear Shane get up, hear him stumble over his words. But Ryan only wants the familiar squeak of the door, which won’t be oiled this year, and the creak of the front step, which won’t be re-enchanted, and the warmth of his own property as he steps through the wards and into the lonesome safety of his own cottage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> C.C. Tinsley's _Hot Daga_ is adored by every single newspaper subscriber.
> 
> Curious about Chad and Lainey? Check out their (and the ugly chair's) first appearance in _[Tėvelis](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7098148),_ the ridiculously filthy 58,000 word Hannigram fic I should probably be ashamed of.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy heck! The response to this has been awesome. I hope you enjoy this chapter just as much! :D

To call the Ogg-Weatherwax residence “messy” would be a gross injustice. Ryan accepts the definition for his own home, partly because the aesthetic works for his business, but mostly because he has better things to do than build and install the fourteen shelving units required for organizing all the crystals and herbs and books and teas he’s amassed over the years, never mind what he inherited. He knows approximately where each item is in the clusterfuck comprising his front room, and that’s good enough.

In comparison with his adoptive mothers, Ryan keeps an immaculate house. Not that their home is dirty; Esme cleans compulsively, likely to deal with the sheer volume of Gytha’s knick knacks and souvenirs, not to mention the cat hair.

The only way Ryan’s ever been able to accurately describe Esme and Gytha’s house to others is to ask them to imagine the lovechild of chain-restaurant decor and a hospital gift shop within the confines of a yurt.

“Oh, it isn’t all  _ that _ bad, is it?” Gytha asks, passing Ryan the sugar bowl. Her grin is infectious, albeit missing teeth. Ryan never fails to feel better when graced with Nanny Ogg’s smile. “It’s cozy in here, Esmerelda, right?”

Esme squints, then blinks, still squinting, like even her eyes are offended by the question. “That,” she says, tipping her head toward an unassuming wooden box on the mantle, “is cozy.”

“We can’t all be minimalists, dear.”

“And you’ve certainly compensated.”

Ryan returns the spoon to the bowl, then pulls his own out of his robes. As much as he enjoyed dressing down to visit his new neighbor, there’s a certain comfort in being cloaked in his own magic. “Do you have a collection, Granny?”

“Letters.” She frowns, tapping the silver sugar bowl over a few centimeters to its apparent rightful place on the tray. “A few photographs. My first spell candle. Important things.”

He nods, stirring his tea with the handle of his spoon, careful not to scratch the teacup with the quartz. “So like a—a witchy scrapbook.”

Esme glares at the crystal-ended spoon. “Wazzat?”

“It’s, um. My wand spoon?”

“Hand it here.” Ryan does, and she turns it over in her hand before pulling out a hat pin and clipping it to the brim of her hat. “I’ll give it back before you go.”

_ “Esme.” _ Gytha reaches for the spoon only to have her hand swatted away. “We’ve talked about this.”

“It’s unnecessary,” she says. “All a bunch of New-Agey nonsense.”

“It’s his practice.”

“And it’s  _ unnecessary.” _

“It’s okay!” says Ryan, because if they start arguing, they won’t stop, and then he’ll never actually get his spoon back.

Esme never means to insult him; she only wants him to have a stronger belief in his own magic, to learn he doesn’t need the accoutrements. He can’t get it through her hat that the crystals only boost his intent, that he augments his ancestors’ craft because he likes it, because Ryan enjoys trying new ideas and creating his own eclectic style. But old witches rarely learn new spells; if Esme refuses to budge, then Ryan chooses to accept her stubbornness.

“Really,” he adds, trying to fill the uneasy silence. “It’s fine.”

Gytha takes her turn to stare at Ryan over the tea. “You need more backbone.”

“That’s the long and short of all my problems.” Ryan’s shoulders slump. “Mostly the long of it.”

“Tall pretty fella down the street giving you trouble, dear?”

Ryan turns his teacup back and forth in his hands. “He’s not that pretty.”

Esme snorts. “He’s pretty tall.”

“I heard he’s from New Edef,” says Gytha in her patented gossip voice. “Skeptic through-and-through, the poor man. Well, rich man, I suppose. He apparently lived in the towers at the University.”

“Then why’s he bloody here?”

“Something about wanting the quiet,” she tells Esme.

A pause. “Then why’s he bloody  _ here?” _

Gytha jabs Esme’s arm, sloshing her tea. “Greebo’s not a mindreader. Go head-logic him, yourself.”

Esme grumbles something about socializing and having to make nice, shaking the tea off her hand before picking her cup back up.

“So...the University?” asks Ryan. “Seriously? A Skeptic staying with a bunch of upper-crust Believers?”

“Posh living. Lots of space, and wizards don’t  _ really _ Practice, you know.” Gytha picks up the sugar bowl and dumps a quarter of it into her empty cup. “They’re more science-like nowadays. Very Skeptic-friendly, all amoeba-watching and circuit-building and things-programming.”

“Weird, chatty buggers,” says Esme, “the whole lot of ‘em.” She turns her eyes to Ryan again—it’s akin to being caught in headlights, attracting Granny’s attention. “You got a weird, chatty, buggery neighbor?”

The back of Ryan’s neck heats up. “Weird, absolutely. Chatty, likely. Uh, buggery...well, I mean,” and he stops, because thinking about Shane in any remotely sexual way scares him. “He’s a dick, that’s all.” Ryan glances at his reflection in the silver teapot as Gytha pours more tea; the man looking back seems flustered, or else has his feathers ruffled, which is absurd. He isn’t even wearing feathers today.

“You talked with him, then?” Gytha asks.

Ryan huffs, then takes a gulp of his tea. “For given values of talking, yeah.” She pats Ryan’s knee, and he almost hates how easily Nanny can pull information from him. In many ways, she’s a stronger witch than Granny, “You know, to welcome him to town,” he continues, “to be friendly, that kind of thing. Just because he’s a Skeptic doesn’t mean he should feel like an—an  _ outcast _ or something.”

“But?”

“He made fun of me, and Chad, and—”

Gytha nods slowly, her eyes growing wide. “I’d forgotten you had the old Eastwick house for Spring Cleansing. Oh dear.”

“—and I’ve never felt so uncomfortable. It was humiliating. The first Skeptic I’ve ever met, and he made me ashamed of myself.”

Esme grumbles again, far more quietly, like a curse layered beneath breath.

“Don’t,” whispers Ryan, holding Esme’s eyes without fear.

“Death owes me a favor,” she says. “Haven’t done more than play with folks’ heads in a while.”

“You can’t just run around killing people!”

“Who said I’d kill him?” The corner of Esme’s mouth twitches up. “That’s no fun, at all. Can’t be learned right if you’re dead.”

“Not easily, leastways.” Gytha gives Ryan’s knee a parting tap. “One of my boys finally learned maths after he drowned.”

Ryan smiles at her, weak as the tea.

 

* * *

 

Shane infuriates him for a number of reasons, but mostly because he exists across the street, a stupidly attractive barrier to Ryan’s work. He hates feeling uneasy when he walks around his property with a burning stick of palo santo, wondering if Shane stares at him judgmentally through Chad’s window—it isn’t Shane’s house, not really. Ryan jumps every time his ward bell rings, concerned the boundaries have been broken, but it’s always just a bird.

Worst of all, Ryan sees Shane every day, whether he wants to or not, because his unwelcome neighbor seems determined to fix up the Eastwick house, Chad’s wishes be damned. Ryan wouldn’t care if Shane could manage to  _ keep his goddamn shirt on. _

He never fails to turn and wave at Ryan, face wide with a cheeky grin, and Ryan wishes he could figure out when Shane knows he’s looking. But Ryan can’t get a read on him. His aura never changes color, always the same bright swirling tangerine and lemon—all citrus, but not sour. Fuzzy around the edges, like when they met, yet constant. No one should be that happy and relaxed all the time.

Ryan tries reading Tinsley’s  _ Hot Daga _ again to see if the damn thing offers any insight into Shane’s  _ actual _ character. It only pisses him off even more, realizing how anti-Practice the strip is; before,  _ Hot Daga _ had been a traditional parody, a caricature of the “evil” witch, portrayed in an unbelievable light, because the public assumed the writer was a Believer. One of those gross generalizations, Ryan’s realized: the assumption of Belief when faced with a generic example, rather than being open-minded to all possibilities. Which makes him madder.

_ Children _ read C.C. Tinsley’s books, for God’s sake. What kind of message does that send?

**And what kind of message does** **_this_ ** **send?** Lainey asks him.  **How is this any better than subverting the minds of the innocent?**

Ryan scowls up at her from where he’s knelt next to the hedge. “I’m just checking on him.”

**You mean peeping,** Lainey tells him.  **Spying. You're casing his casa.**

“I am  _ not.” _ He pops the telescoping lens off of his glasses. “I'm not going to break in!” Ryan hesitates. “Not if it can be helped.”

**So you're eyeing his ass.**

“Elaine—”

**_Oh,_ ** **full first name!** Lainey throws her hands in front of her chest, mocking him like the bratty teenager she was.  **We’re gettin’ serious now. You don’t even have a reason to be out here except for drooling over the new guy.**

“The plants need a good conversation,” he says, scowling. “Abuelo’s tomatoes are probably grumpy. They always are.”

**And you’re probably full of shit, as** **_you_ ** **always are.**

A cat meows from the depths of the lavender.

“Don’t start, Brent.” Ryan digs around in the dirt pointedly, as petulant as Lainey, looking for the green aventurine he buried last month. “You’re not around enough to have opinions, anyway.”

Brent hisses; a ball of dead mouse comes rolling out of his hiding spot.

Ryan glances at it, shaking his head. “I guess that’s one way to bring me bones.”

More hissing. Ryan often considers if his eldest familiar is only a wasp’s nest covered in red-brown fur.

“Of course. Thank you. I think.”

The lavender shakes with the force of Brent’s answering purr.

“Fucking weirdest familiar,” mumbles Ryan. “At least Zack shows a passing interest in my Practice.”

**Oh, Brent’s not so bad.**

Ryan stares at the sky, looking for help he knows can’t be found. “You aren’t allowed to have opinions, either.”

Lainey crouches down, transparent hand diving into the lavender. **No eres un gatito malo** **,** she coos as Brent hisses and attacks, claws clacking against each other as they pass through Lainey’s arm.  **Ryan’s just mad because you out-cranky him.**

“I’m not cranky!” He snaps his head so hard, he loses his balance, landing on his ass in the wet soil. “Okay,” says Ryan, “I might be a little cranky now.”

**Want me to go slam Holly’s cupboards around and get her over for tea?**

“No, that’s…” Ryan throws the quartz off in a random direction. It can recharge itself for all he cares. “Yeah,” he tells her, defeated. “Yeah, I could use some jolly Holly time.”

**Pastries: yea or nay?**

“Yea. Very, very yea.”

 

* * *

 

With a pun like Holland Hayes for a name, Ryan supposes she couldn’t be anything  _ but _ jovial, though she does insist on being called Holly, the only outward sign of her possible discomfort. A kitchen witch, Holly smiles brightest when she’s baking, and talks most when she’s sharing food. If Esme and Gytha are Ryan’s mothers, then Holly serves as his over-doting aunt. All he needs to complete his found family is a sickly sweet grandpa.

“Or a boyfriend,” says Holly, putting a second sticky bun on Ryan’s plate. “Or a girlfriend. Or a—a person-friend, I suppose. Whatever, you just need someone to love and squeeze on you.”

Ryan groans, the side of his head on the table. He hasn’t changed out of his gardening clothes; his cuticles are still black with dirt that wouldn’t scrub out, no matter how many times he washed his hands. “I have more than enough complications in my life already.”

“Mhmm. ‘Course you do.”

“Coordinating my schedule with someone else’s is basically impossible.”

Holly keeps nodding, the chain for her purple glasses rattling against their plastic frame, and Ryan’s plate grows a slice of banana bread, heavy on the walnuts. “You do stay busy.”

He swats Zack’s paw away from his bread. “Besides,” Ryans says, scritching behind one of Zack’s ears, “it’s not like anyone’s interested in me.”

“‘Course.”

“And I’m not interested in anyone.”

“Mhmm.”

Frowning, Ryan asks, “You don’t believe me, do you?”

“Not a goddamn word.” She smiles, then reaches across the table to bop his nose. “There’s that handsome fella across the street, for instance.”

“Oh, no.”

Holly chuckles like Ryan imagines Mrs. Claus would, should she exist. “How’d he like those empanadas we made?”

He feels his neck heat up, prays it won’t climb up to his face. “He ate three of them. I left the plate, so maybe more.”

“Does he have a name?”

“Shane.” Ryan breaks a piece off of his banana bread, sideways, lifting his head off the table so he can eat. “He’s also—”

And Ryan stops, realizing Shane has two names, too: his true name, and his nom de plume. He gave both to Ryan within minutes of meeting. Ryan can’t decide how to interpret such immediate trust. Telling Shane his name was Ricky seems more disingenuous than it already did, and his stomach turns.

“—A Skeptic,” he finishes, trying to ignore the creeping guilt and focus on the overwhelming frustration. “And he was an asshole, and also marginally confusing, because it was like—like he was as genuinely curious as he was dismissive?”

“Mhmm.” Holly shuttles a scone beside Ryan’s teacup.

“I mean, he genuinely pissed me off,” continues Ryan, sitting up all the way, jamming another crumbling chunk of banana bread into his mouth, ignoring the walnut stuck between his back teeth. “He fucking  _ laughed _ at me when I brought up Spring Cleansing.” 

“Oh goodness.” She picks up his sousobo’s teapot, the only person Ryan will let touch it—except, that’s not true, either, not anymore. Shane inspected it, and Ryan hadn’t even considered telling him not to. “So you’re angry with him,” Holly says, refilling his cup.

“Of  course I’m angry!”

“Did you give him a fair shake?”

Ryan stares at the surface of his tea. “How do you mean?”

“I mean,” she begins, “did you go to meet him with a clear head, or did you take a bunch of beliefs about Skeptics with you in your little basket?”

“I guess…” He turns his wand over in his hand, again and again, unable to decide whether or not to bother with it. “I didn’t really think about it.”

Holly hums, and the table creaks under the weight of her elbows. “I figured as much.”

“He’d have been a jackass either way.”

“Really, now.”

“Stop—stop doing that.”

“What, making you challenge yourself?” Her cheeks are as rosy as her housecoat. “Ryan, honey, it’s a natural thing, to have prejudice. Nobody’s immune. No potion’s gonna magic a lifetime of social instruction away, y’know? And you’ve only ever lived here. You’re bound to have some preconceived notions rattling around in that pretty little head of yours.”

Ryan’s uncomfortable considering about it. “I don’t know,” he murmurs, trying not to feel ashamed. “He seems like a natural-born...well.”

“A bad hat?”

“No!” He pokes a hole into the sticky bun with his finger. “Just stubborn and outspoken and irritating.”

“I see.”

“Broke one of my teacups over there, too.”

“Oh, no.”

“He just waves at me all the time like nothing happened!”

She breaks a scone in half, then dunks a piece into her tea. “Maybe he’s trying to be nice,” says Holly. “Maybe he feels bad about it and doesn’t know how to approach you.” Hiding her scone-full mouth behind her hand, she adds, “Not like he has a dark aura. Can’t have acres of rose pink hanging around your head and be a bad guy.”

Ryan stares into his own eyes, reflected in the thick lenses of Holly’s glasses. “You see pink?”

“That I do.” Tea drips off of her scone and into her open hand. “Why, what do you see?”

“Is it pink like a grapefruit?”

“A little bit!” More scone disappears into Holly’s mouth. “Or cantaloupe? My eyes aren’t all that they used to be.”

Ryan wonders if his own are any better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holly is also a character from my Hannigram fics, appearing in both _[Grumpy Old Cannibals](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8674567)_ and _[The Sun's Light Failed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7916734/chapters/18089731)_. I get too attached to my OCs, and then they start showing up everywhere.
> 
> Updates will continue to be irregular, but I'm having so much fun writing this.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, please consider sharing [the aesthetic post](https://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/post/173311158074/shaneryan-magic-au-teen-up-no-archive). Thank you for reading!
> 
> You can find me on [tumblr](https://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/). I'm friendly and enjoy flailing excitedly about various topics.
> 
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